Up until this point I had been very proud of the boy for never giving me any real reason not to trust him; however, I was clamoring for a good reason to say no to the solo trek. Coming up empty the best I could do was lecture him for a good five minutes on strangers, cars, dogs, not walking in other peoples yards and making it back home in 20 minutes. Tops. We synchronized our watches and off he went.

I remember standing on the top step leading up to our little porch and watching him as he neared the first corner that would put him out of sight. I began bouncing on the balls of my feet and imagine there must have been a cloud of dust in my wake as I launched from the porch once he rounded that corner. If I could just make it to that elm tree quick enough I would catch him before he moved around the next corner that put him on the street to the store.

When I was eight years old I lived on a military base in North Carolina with my mother, little brother, older sister (who was in the military) and her soon to be husband. I had been allowed to walk to and from the commissary by myself at this time and normally it was without incident, or as without incident as the roaming mind of an eight year old can allow. One particular day I stood at an intersection waiting for the crosswalk to prompt me forward when a car pulled to a stop in front of me. I stopped looking at the crosswalk long enough to peer into the car and saw a woman driving and a young boy (about my age) in the passenger seat. For the car to have stopped I knew the crosswalk was going to change and I’d be able to cross the street.

Before I could take my eyes from the car and look to the sign I saw her hit him. Her right hand came flying across and crashed into the side of his face. The boy didn’t cry. He lowered his face a bit toward the window and didn’t move. With a ferocity I’d never seen she grabbed a hand full of hair and forced him to look at her. This is when she started screaming.

By the time I was eight I had heard my share of obscenities. What was foreign to me was how those obscenities changed when fueled by rage. Rage fueled obscenities. Yes, that is what I heard pouring through that car window that day.

I stood there stock still. Deer in the headlights if you will. Maybe a minute had passed at this point though it felt much longer. She finished her tirade and forcefully pushed the boys head away from her with enough force for his cheek to crash against the window that was not quite all the way rolled down. It was when she pushed him away that she looked through his window and saw me standing there.

Her face was screwed into some expression that would have been more at home on a rabid animal. She leaned across the boys seat and stuck one index finger out his window. Pointing at me she said, “you’re next”.

It seems at this same instance her light turned green and without another glance she straightened herself, accelerated and moved down the road. I never saw her or the boy again.

The rest of my walk home I cried what I thought was a man’s cry. There were very few tears but my ribs shook from the internal sobbing.

This scene from my past replayed itself as I moved out from behind the elm and sought cover on the opposite corner. I watched as my son turned into the parking lot and made his way into the store. I only waited a few minutes before he came back onto the street with an orange pop in one hand and some candy in the other. I had planned my return route which took me onto the street behind our house and allowed me to keep an eye on the boy between houses. I ended up hopping the fence into our backyard and greeting him in our driveway.

It’s our job to protect our children. I wonder if I would have followed my son that day had I not witnessed what I did when I was eight. I think I would have, though the urgency and motivation would have been a bit different I imagine. It’s interesting, those things that shape you.

of puddles and rain

When I realize the summer rain is inescapable it releases something inside me akin to childlike joy. The moment when the drops connect and run streaming down my neck. When I’m too far from my destination to make a run for it without getting soaked and I just stop. Stop. I raise my head to the sky with eyes partially open and a grin that cannot be squelched. In this instant I’m six years old again. The smell of the water washes over me and if I listen closely I can hear the childhood friends of yesteryear splashing in the puddles around me.

those little green army men

Once upon a time video games only consisted of a pong cartridge and an Atari paddle. While this was pretty amazing in its day it was not enough to lure me away from my bag of green army men for very long. Even today just seeing these little green guys is enough to make me feel like a child. I can feel the dirt under my fingernails from digging trenches by hand for them to hide in. The elaborate structures we would build with sticks and fallen leaves. The strategies we would develop. The lands we would conquer.

escaping with fear and wonder

I started reading for pleasure when I was pretty young. It wasn’t long before I knew the horror genre held something special for me. While I could get lost in just about any book it was those authored by Stephen King that didn’t like to let me go. The same was true of Poe’s short stories and as I grew into a teen the allure of Edgar Rice Burroughs took me deep into the jungle with a man that was raised by apes. Today books are the shortest route to the child in me. I refuse to let the rough texture of life soften the wonder that can be found within their pages.

creek beds and crawfish

Growing up along the North Carolina coast makes for a lot of wet fun. I would spend hours investigating creek beds near our home; filling mason jars with tadpoles and occasionally finding the treasure of a crawfish or young box turtle. This was back in the day when play clothes really were worn for nothing else and the smell of mud, no matter how often they were washed, could not be removed from my Levi’s. These creeks, and all they hold, still contain a magic for me today. If you happen upon a pair of worn tennis shoes on the bank of a creek and see a guy that looks a little too old to be playing with minnows, don’t be alarmed. It’s just me.

It seems that for many the meaning of becoming an adult includes letting go of the child. I imagine there is a point in time when this is true. When one believes those childish things and acts should be put away only to be stumbled upon years later when the opportunity to reclaim them may have passed. I don’t subscribe to this way of thinking. Being a good dad involves remembering and connecting with the child you used to be. While I know when to act like a grown up the child is always within reach.

What about you? What brings out the child in you?

A picture of me taken a very long time ago. Probably around 1978.

This post is my entry in a contest being hosted by Jeremy at Discovering Dad.

In an effort to help with the busyness that occurs around a new baby my wife offered to take their three year old son to gymnastics since our daughter is in the same class. The families usually carpool anyway.

According to my wife the whole class was a bit off and the kids were just acting all goofy. The instructor apparently ended up chasing and tickling the kids in an effort to work it out of them. I’m guessing she doesn’t have children.

The return trip was just as goofy. At one point it seems that one child spat on the other which of course set off a competition. My wife was quick to discipline our daughter who immediately replied with (you guessed it) “He was spitting too!”

My wife explained that he wasn’t her child to discipline but was sure he knew better than to be spitting, to which the boy replied,

“Girls and boys do different things. Girls can’t spit, but boys can.”

Well, I guess that clears that one up. Now we know why boys spit.

Moments after walking in the door this evening the phone rings and it’s my eldest son.

Son: “Dad, what’s up?”

Dad: “Not much, just walking in the door. What’s up with you?”

Son: “Well, I wanted to see what you’re doing Saturday night.”

Dad: “This weekend is pretty busy. What time are you talking about?”

Son: “6:30. It’s prom this weekend and I called to see if you wanted to take some pictures. We can just have some printed for you if you’re too busy.” -no sarcasm, just sincerity

Dad: “I’m pretty sure I can change around whatever might have been planned. Where do you need me to be?”

When I got off the phone my wife asked who it was and I couldn’t wait to fill her in. She was as excited about this opportunity as I was.

You see, we don’t hear from the boy often. He’s a big kid now and the weekend visits stopped long ago (around the time he got his drivers license, job and girlfriend). We miss him a lot but we also make sure to not push ourselves on him. This is when many years worth of being “the other” parent teaches one patience and restraint.

It’s funny though because the time we spend together now is usually because he initiated it. The occasional weekday dinners or half an hour texting sessions mean so damn much it just chokes me up. -no sarcasm, just sincerity

When you spend years picking up your kids at a court ordered time you begin to lose faith in the notion that those kids really want to be with you outside those times.

Thanks for the call son. I really needed that.

For the last month the religious education teacher drummed into the class how important this day was in the children’s religious life Let me tell you, the solemnity of the occasion was not misunderstood by my son. Throughout the whole mass this kid did not crack a smile. He was focused, and driven. Because he is well spoken he was chosen to do a little reading in front of the congregation. He gladly accepted, but the teacher saw how solemn he was and kept badgering him about not being nervous. My son looked at him and snapped “I’m not nervous!” I apologized to the teacher and told him that my son did not get nervous for anything, and that he was “in the zone”. The teacher cocked his eyebrow and said OK, and fluttered off to do another one of his duties.

It was a great time for our family. We are all so proud of him, as we are his two cousins, who celebrated this milestone as well. (They are only a few weeks apart in age. My wife, sister, and sister-in-law were all pregnant at the same time.)

After mass my son waded through the crowd and found one of the deacons and pulled him aside. By the time I caught up to them he had asked the deacon what it would take to become a Sacristan (Altar Server). I was quite surprised, but happy at the same time. It seems like not too long ago I was bringing this little boy into church bundled in a car seat, and now he is making decisions about being more involved in our faith without any prodding. I drove home beaming with pride.

My son has his moments. Like the title alludes to, he’s by no means a holy man, but he does have his head screwed on straight when it comes to subjects like fairness, equality, empathy, sympathy, loyalty, etc.